Chapter 20
Aria’s POV
Ethan's head snapped up, his eyes widening when they locked with mine. A flash of panic crossed his face.
"Aria," he said quickly, "it's not what you think. Scarlett is just helping me because Victoria asked her to. We're not—there's nothing going on." He looked almost afraid, as if expecting me to make a scene.
I regarded him coolly. "Why would I care?" I turned to Sophia. "We should head back down."
As we walked toward the elevator, I heard Scarlett's voice drop to a theatrical whisper. "Don't worry, she's just jealous. It's not your fault she can't accept that things are over between you."
Sophia rolled her eyes as we stepped into the elevator. "What a bitch," she said, mimicking Scarlett's sugary tone: "'Darling.' Ugh, makes me want to vomit." She glanced at me. "You okay?"
I surprised myself by laughing genuinely. "Honestly? I look at Ethan now and all I feel is disgust."
"Good," Sophia said with a satisfied nod. The elevator doors opened at her floor. "Are you heading home?"
"Yeah, it's been a long day," I sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of everything.
"Oh, I almost forgot to tell you," Sophia said, holding the elevator door open. "I borrowed your car last night to get here when they called about Mom. It's in the parking garage, level B2, near the east elevator." She dug into her purse and pulled out my spare key. "Sorry I didn't ask—it was an emergency and you weren't answering your phone."
"Don't worry about it," I said, taking the key. "I'm glad you had it."
---
After saying goodbye to Sophia on the general ward floor where Carmen's room was located, I took the elevator down to the parking garage. I leaned against my car for a moment, breathing deeply to steady myself. The encounter with Ethan and Scarlett had rattled me more than I wanted to admit, not from jealousy, but from the sheer audacity of their performance.
I spotted a cigarette that had fallen from Sophia's purse during our previous ride together. On impulse, I picked it up, studying it between my fingers. I rarely smoked—only when I was particularly stressed—but tonight seemed like a justified exception. I lit it with the car lighter, mimicking the elegant way Sophia held hers, and inhaled carefully.
I was just about to stub out the cigarette when I heard the distinctive click of heels on concrete. Scarlett appeared between the parked cars, her white dress glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. She froze momentarily when she saw me, then recovered, fishing her keys from her purse.
"Look what Daddy bought me yesterday," she said, pressing a button that made the headlights of a gleaming new Mercedes flash. "Do you like it?"
I kept my expression neutral, though my fingers tightened around my own keys until the metal bit into my palm. The contrast was stark—while I'd been forced to trade my body for a business contract to save my company, my father had casually gifted my stepsister a luxury car worth well over six figures.
"It's very nice," I said flatly, opening my car door.
I slid into the driver's seat and started the engine, watching through my rearview mirror as Scarlett stroked the hood of her new car with possessive pride. I pulled out of my parking space, driving toward the exit—but something made me circle back through the garage.
As I approached Scarlett's gleaming new Mercedes, a cold calmness settled over me. I slowed my car, then deliberately turned the wheel, letting my vehicle sideswipe hers. The sound of metal scraping metal was oddly satisfying.
Scarlett's scream of outrage echoed through the concrete structure. I stopped my car and rolled down the window, meeting her furious gaze.
"Scarlett Harper?" I called out sweetly. "Or should I say Scarlett Ross? Changing your last name doesn't make you William Harper's daughter. There's only one Harper daughter, and that's me—Aria Harper."
Her face contorted with rage as I drove away, leaving her shouting obscenities in my wake. It was childish and petty, I knew, but for the first time in days, I felt something close to satisfaction.
---
The shrill ring of my phone jolted me awake. Sunlight streamed through the windows of my Brooklyn apartment, indicating it was well into morning. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, not recognizing the number on the screen.
"Hello?" I answered, my voice still thick with sleep.
"Ms. Harper." The male voice was deliberately low, as if disguised. "I have something you might be interested in."
I sat up, suddenly alert. "Who is this?"
"Someone who knows the truth about your mother." There was a pause. "And your stepmother."
My heart began to race. "What are you talking about?"
"Not over the phone," the voice replied. "Meet me at Antlers Coffee in Brooklyn in one hour. Come alone."
Before I could respond, the line went dead. Seconds later, a text message arrived from the same number—a photograph. It showed a much younger version of my father standing close to a younger Victoria. Both were smiling, his hand on her waist in a gesture that seemed far too familiar for a professional relationship.
The text below the image read: "Bring $50,000 cash. You'll want to hear what I have to say."
I stared at the photo, my fingers trembling. The timestamp on the image showed it was taken three years before my mother died—when Victoria was supposedly just her personal assistant, not the public relations director she'd always claimed to be.
Antlers Coffee was a trendy spot in a gentrifying corner of Brooklyn, known for its taxidermy decor and excellent pour-overs. I arrived fifteen minutes early, choosing a table near the window where I could watch the entrance. I hadn't brought the cash, of course—I wasn't stupid. But I needed to know what this person knew.
At precisely the appointed time, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap and sunglasses entered the cafe. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on me before he approached my table. Without asking permission, he slid into the chair opposite mine.
"Ms. Harper," he said, his voice the same disguised tone from the phone. "You look just like your mother."
"Who are you?" I demanded, keeping my voice low.
"Someone who knows Victoria Ross isn't who she claims to be." He leaned forward. "And that your mother's death wasn't an accident."
My stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"
"Victoria wasn't just your mother's personal assistant," he said, his jaw tightening. "She used that position to get close to your father. You saw the photo—they knew each other long before your mother's illness. Think about it, Ms. Harper. Who benefited most from Elizabeth Harper's death?"
I felt cold all over. "Are you suggesting my stepmother had something to do with my mother dying?"
"Your mother's illness was sudden and aggressive," he said. "Don't you find that suspicious? A healthy woman in her forties, suddenly diagnosed with a rare condition that killed her within months?"
"My mother died of complications from her illness," I said automatically, repeating what I'd been told for years.
The man's eyes were hard behind his sunglasses. "Victoria Ross destroyed my life," he said with quiet intensity. "And I believe she destroyed your mother's too. She needs to face consequences for what she's done."
"Who are you?" I asked again.
"An ally," he replied. "Someone who wants justice as much as you do." He slid a business card across the table. It was blank except for a phone number. "When you're ready to learn the whole truth, call me. And next time, bring the money."
He stood to leave, but I caught his sleeve. "Wait—you can't just drop something like this and walk away. If you know something about my mother's death, you need to tell me."
He looked down at me, his expression unreadable behind his disguised appearance. "I will," he promised. "But information like this comes with a price. Victoria Ross has powerful friends, Ms. Harper. Protecting yourself—and me—requires resources."
With that, he walked out of the cafe, leaving me staring at the business card in my hand, my coffee growing cold as my mind raced with terrible new possibilities about my mother's death.